


Hemlock Grove Mysteries: the Case of the Mortician

by StarsAreMassive



Category: Hemlock Grove
Genre: Gen, Horror, Murder Mystery, Racist Language
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-03-04
Updated: 2018-03-04
Packaged: 2019-03-27 01:23:24
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,229
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13870092
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/StarsAreMassive/pseuds/StarsAreMassive
Summary: Prompt: You're lying on a cold metal table in a morgue. And you're awake.





	Hemlock Grove Mysteries: the Case of the Mortician

**Author's Note:**

> First post to AO3!  
> I have a new obsession with Hemlock Grove. This fic is based on an AU where Nadia didn't survive and neither did Olivia.  
> Enjoy!

Peter complained sometimes ( _all the fucking time actually, the little bitch_ ) about his stillness. Roman could go from pacing and twitching and gesticulating a thousand miles a minute, to just… nothing.

_“Not getting soft on me, are ya boy?”_ Roman would sneer at him.  
The Romani would give him a one-fingered salute every time. _“Just - I don’t know - breathe or something.”_

He’d had fun teasing Peter for being such a pussy (for a dog), but this time it had come back to bit him in the ass. His freezing cold, immobile ass.

It had all started with desecrated graves: overturned earth, collapsed headstones, broken pieces of casket - odd, but not the horrific clusterfucks that usually plagued Hemlock Grove. That was, until one of the graves had been found empty - after whatever had been inside had busted _out_. Once Roman had dragged Peter down to investigate, the upir had been convinced they’d been looking at Pryce’s handiwork. He’d turned on his heels, Armani boots digging into the dirt, and had been set to march on the White Tower - _again_. Until Peter had dug his heels in too, scuffed and peeling away from the leather, clamped his arms tight around Roman’s waist, and threw them both to the ground.

Only he hadn’t been looking where he was throwing them, and for the second time since they met, they ended up inside a grave together. Only Peter’s scruffy hair falling into his mouth muffled the pained groan that was forced between Roman’s lips as he cushioned Peter’s fall.

“Holy shit - get _off_ me you fat fuck,” he’d gasped.  
  
“Quit being a baby - and calm down.” Peter had sat up, Roman’s wrists pinned in his hands, and started to shake sense into the upir. “Such a reckless dick. Think for a second. Last time you stormed off to Pryce, you ended up in a coma. And there’s no momma upir left to look after you. Only me, and I’m a total shit. You’ll have to find out another way.”

“Like what -”

“Are you the fucking CEO or not?! Jesus, you’re an idiot Roman.”

And so he’d done some digging, and Peter had been at his sneaky, mysterious, Romani best, and they’d uncovered absolutely nothing tying Pryce or Godfrey Industries to any of the desecrated graves of the families. Peter had, however, unearthed some whispers about ‘reanimation’ in Hemlock Grove and a mortician who fancied himself a bit of a Necromancer. Eventually Peter had come to them with a name (and a few bruises he wasn’t quite willing to explain that made Destiny roll her eyes and hit him on the head), and then Roman had been in his element. He’d commandeered the new Police Chief, and sauntered into her office to get everything they had on Mortuary Technician Sandy Cedar. The file he’d dropped on the dinner table in Peter’s trailer had been pretty thin, but it had been enough.

Sandy Cedar, it turned out, was a shady fuck. Bought up supplies on the black market and sold, in Destiny’s words, _‘to those goddamn morons who think buying human artifacts from someone who fucks around with magic is a good fucking idea because they’ve got too much money and no fucking brains. No offense, Roman.’_ Cedar had been run out of towns from East to West and had settled in Hemlock Grove about a month ago. When the desecrations began.

“They’re fresh graves, Roman. It’s gotta be him. I don’t know if he’s harvesting limbs or organs for his black market shit again, or trying to reanimate a whole corpse -”

“What, like a fucking zombie?”

“Yeah, like a fucking zombie.”

  
Peter had sent Roman off to do what he did best - swan into a place like he owned it and demand to see Cedar. So he had, and he did. Peter had asked him endlessly what he was going to say - what excuse would he give for being there. Roman had pursed those full lips into an unimpressed line and glared at him, one eyebrow cocked, and said _“I don’t need a fucking reason. I own this town.”_ Peter had walked away muttering about rich pricks and _"just because it’s true doesn’t mean you gotta remind me all the time"_.

But Roman’s visit had turned up nothing. Zip. Nada. He’d regaled Destiny and Peter with a gripping tale of a stuttering (and _tiny_ ) mortician, and the blandest, beige-ist mortuary he’d ever been in.

“I mean, fuck, how can a place used to cut up dead bodies and practice fucking necromancy be so boring. The most offensive thing was the smell.”

Peter cuffed his shoulder. “Thought you’d be used to that smell, what with being raised by your mom.”

“Fucking hysterical, Rumancek. Not death - I don’t know what he’s hiding the smell of dead bodies with, but I think I’d prefer the decay. So fucking sweet in there I thought I was gonna hurl.”

Destiny peered at him from behind her hair. “Sweet like how?”

“I don’t know, just sweet.”

“Like sugar?”

“Well, no. No. A little bit sharper, like…um,”

“Like there were something underneath it.”

“Yeah, but I figured that was the bodies.”

“No, Roman. It was Fenugreek.”

“What’s that?”

“A plant, y’fuckin’ moron. But it’s not usually on a mortician’s grocery list.”

Peter huffed. “Then what would he need it for?”

“Some try to use it in spell work to control the dead.”

*

Roman was still hazy on how that little revelation had led to Peter snatching a body set to go into Cedar’s morgue, and Roman himself bare-assed on a fucking freezing steel table, covered by the flimsiest, nastiest sheet he’d ever seen. Yet here he was. He’d lost track of how long he’d been here. It must’ve been fuckin’ hours. He couldn’t feel anything below his butt and his spine digging into the table was about to drive him insane - the Gypsies’ bullshit, Sherlock-on-crack scheme could go fuck itself. But no. Peter would look at him all pissed off and wounded, and his bitch cousin would sneer about _upirs_ and how you couldn’t trust ‘em with anything and, well, fuck _that_.

Although that didn’t stop him from grumbling about how really, it should have been Peter on the slab because at least his legs wouldn’t have dangled over the edge ( " _Don’t dangle them Roman. Rigor mortis makes dead bodies all stiff - stop fucking laughing, you dick!”_ )

That boy had a lot of making up to do after this was over.

Muffled voices filtered through from the other side of the door. _Showtime. Fucking finally._

“Right this way, Madam. I think you’ll be quite pleased at the product. A perfect specimen.”

Well, at least someone appreciated him.

Roman steeled himself. Took on last deep breath, ran through Destiny’s tips on shallow breathing, and braced his muscles for stillness.

“Then I hope you’ve perfected your methods, Sandy,” said a woman. Roman could hear the false affectation from a mile away. Some plebeian trying to play at the higher circles. “Your last efforts haven’t worked out too well. After the murders last year, your failures have been causing a little alarm.”

“Of course, of course Madam. The last formula only needed the most minor tweaking. I assure you - there won’t be any problems with this one.”

“We’ll see.”

“Would you care to do the honours?”

The sheet was ripped from over Roman, the top half thrown over his legs and, if he were a different sort of person, he may have said a silent prayer of thanks that it teetered on the right side of his hips. As it was, he had to fight down a smirk.

The woman gasped, and he felt claw like nails ( _acrylic, Jesus_ ) grab his face and he only just remembered to tense his neck to make it difficult to move.

“I can’t believe it,” she whispered. “I can’t believe it. Roman Godfrey - how on earth did you get your hands on a Godfrey?”

“I - I’m not sure - that name has some significance?” Cedar stuttered.

“His family - well, it’s just him now I suppose - they run this town, Cedar. Do you know anything? I would have thought - he runs the Godfrey institute and they’re medical pioneers. Surely he has his own private team of doctors. How - why is he here?”

He heard shuffling feet. “I don’t ask why when I receive the bodies, madam. It says in his chart that he died from an overdose.”

Madam snorted. “Only a matter of time, really. The Godfreys are well known for their vices. I do wonder though… perhaps the company is trying to stop it from getting out to the stakeholders. Did you receive any payment for taking in this body?”

_Now that would have been a nice touch_ , Roman thought. _Fuck_.

“As a matter of fact I did. An envelope was left on my desk which held a sizeable donation.”

“From the institute?”

“It did have their letter head. It’s not unusual - families often provide gifts. They want to make sure their loved ones are well taken care of. But the amount…”

_Son of a bitch!_ Roman grit his teeth. _That’s the last fucking time I give that gypsy fuck my card._

“A bribe, Sandy. In true Godfrey style. Never mind -” she clapped her hands and ran fingers through Roman’s hair. “Shall we get started?”

“Of course, of course. I have everything I need here.” A trolley with a squeaky wheel was rolled over to the table. “We’ll place the poultice under the heart first of all. I’ll do some basic embalming and preserve the body, then we can move on to the procedure.”

Madam laughed. “Procedure. What’s wrong - does necromancy not sit well with you?”

Cedar paused, fiddled with something metallic, and Roman heard a click. “I am a scientist.”

“But of course.”

Then the whirring started. Roman clamped down on all his muscles to stop from flinching. It sounded big. A big, heavy, serious, spinning blade that sounded closer and closer by the second.

But not to worry, because Peter would be bursting in through the doorway right - _now_.

Only, he didn’t. The door stayed shut and the spinning blade was coming closer.

_Right fucking now, Rumancek!_ But Roman couldn’t hear anyone outside, any kicking, yelling, hammering - anything at all above the whirring of the blade Cedar was holding directly above his sternum.

He wasn’t coming. The Gypsy fuck had skipped town - or found a girl to fuck, or gotten stone but he wasn’t coming. And Roman was about to become fucking deli ham in some skanky morgue because he was a fucking _idiot_ and trusted a gypsy. Now he was about to die, and if he got out of this alive, he was going to put that dirty ass dog _down._

But then he felt the air of the blade touch his chest.

Roman’s eyes shot open, Cedar and Madam loomed over him and the blade yanked his chest hair out.

“JESUS CHRIST! _Get the fuck off me!_ ”

Madam screamed. Cedar jumped back and something fast and fucking _gypsy_ looking bulleted into the side of him and they both went down. Madam scratch at his face and split for the door. But despite those worthless fucking heels she wore to make herself look taller, Roman shot off the table and hand his fingers wrapped around her hair in a second. He yanked her back, she screamed at the pain, and he threw her back towards the table. She crumpled on the floor and grabbed blindly for the tools Cedar had knocked over when Peter tackled him. She grabbed a scalpel and came at Roman, slashing for his face and chest. Cedar had somehow thrown Peter off him and scrambled backwards, his hand tripping Roman and letting Madam get the opening she needed. Red blossomed across his forearm where he’d managed to block his face. She swung at him again, but Roman caught her arm and twisted. He brought his other hand down, open palm on her face, and she went down gasping and spluttering and bleeding from her nose and lip. Roman held her face down with his grip on her wrists. He looked up and Peter was kicking Cedar in the gut, in the face and climbing on top of him and throwing punches.

“Peter! PETER!”

Peter threw himself off the mortician, and turned him facedown too, not that Cedars was fighting back much - or moving much at all, really. Peter looked at Roman, panting. “Hey.”

“Hey? _Hey?_ Are you fucking kidding me? Where the fuck were you, asshole?! I was a second away from getting carved up like a fucking thanksgiving turkey! You fucking piece of shit Rumancek, what the fuck!”

“I’m sorry - I’m sorry! Fuck, _shit!_ I’m sorry alright - it took Destiny longer than she’d thought to get her guys organised. I could fucking kill her but we need them if we don’t want this to get messy. Fuck Roman - you’re bleeding.”

Roman looked down at his arm where the blood had started to pool under the palm of his hand. “Oh, yeah,” he murmured. “She cut me.” He lifted it to his face and licked along the seam, licked the lines of his palm and sucked on his fingertips.

“Here.” Peter took the scalpel and cut a ribbon from Cedar’s coat. He took Roman’s arm and bound it, knotting the fabric at the end.

“You know that’s entirely unnecessary, right?”

“Shut the fuck up - and God, put some clothes on.”

In the excitement, Roman had forgotten what he’d worn beneath the sheet - or rather, what he hadn’t. The sheet lay forgotten at the bottom of the table, and Roman, with Madam pinned beneath him still not daring to move or speak, didn’t have so much as a stitch of clothing on.

“Hmm. Okay, hold on and I’ll magic some threads up out of thin air. Give me my bag, you dick.”

Peter shifted. “What bag?”

“What - the bag. _My_ bag, that I gave you to bring with you because you and your bitch cousin insisted I had to be under there,“ he brandished a spindly finger at the sheet and Madam started squirming when she felt his weight shift. “In all my fucking glory.”

Peter’s lips tightened and he turned his face away from Roman. The upir saw his shoulders shudder and heard the laughs he was trying to hold back.

“Oh you fuck, you forgot it didn’t you?”

“I - I may have - I panicked, I was running late and didn’t want you to end up dead - or well, at least a little mushy. Would that bone saw have killed you?”

“I didn’t want to fucking find out! Fuck sake. God, okay - give me his coat. You’re such a shit, Peter.”

“Alright princess, keep your - “

Roman glared at him as he tussled Madam back into place. “You dare.”

Where most people would have cowed, Peter only grinned and started stripping the mortician. Madam wriggled, and kicked, and tried to yell but Roman had one hand on the back of her hand pushing it into the floor.

“Fuck this,” he muttered and forced her over, one arm trapped at an awkward angle under her back. Roman grabbed the other wrist in one hand and forced it above her head, and clutched her face with the other until she looked him in the eyes.

“ **Stop struggling** ,” he commanded and her body went still. “ **Go to sleep, and don’t wake until I tell you to.** ”

He stood up and Peter brandished the white lab coat at him. Roman slipped it on, dismayed that he’d underestimated just how short Cedar really was, as the edge of the coat barely covered him.

“Looks good,” Peter choked around his giggles.

“Fuck you.”

“In that get up? Tempting.”

Roman rolled his eyes and they hauled Madam and Cedar to their feet.

“Let’s get the fuck out of here,” he said. “Where does Destiny want you to drop Cedar?”

“We’ve to hand him over on the edge of town. Dee will be waiting there with… whoever the fuck she was trying to contact earlier. I don’t know - I didn’t ask too many questions.”

“Alright. She’s out for a while anyway,” Roman said, wrapping his arms under Madam and clasping his hands in front of her chest as he started to drag her out to room. “I’ll put her in the trunk and you can sit Cedar in the back seat. Let’s get rid of him first, then take this bitch to the precinct.”

Peter had one of Cedar’s arms slung over his neck and followed Roman out. “You’re just going to mind fuck everyone?”

Roman sighed. “Look, I know you hate it. But she’s into some dark shit and we really don’t need someone like that running around Hemlock. Just - the scalpel helps -” Roman patted the pocket of the lab coat where he’d put it. “I can tell the police that she’d been found attacking me - to charge her with GBH or something else that doesn’t require a courtroom - the blood on the scalpel will be enough evidence. Then she can just be someone else’s problem.”

Peter huffed as he dragged Cedar down the concrete stairs outside and popped the trunk to Roman’s car - he’d given him the keys earlier that day. “Help me put him in the back.”

Roman dumped Madam down in the dirt. “Sure.” He lifted Cedar’s legs as Peter maneuvered him into the back seat. He folded the legs in and propped him with his head against the window. Roman trotted back to Madam and hauled her up by her hair before hoisting her by the waist and throwing her in the trunk.

Peter leaned against the car and looked at Roman - that weighted, considering look he got when he was thinking something over. “Alright,” he said eventually. “Alright - I’ll let it slide this time. But only because the bitch cut you. Not that you minded you perv, but still. It’s the principle.”

Roman snorted and trotted the the passenger side. “Gypsies have principles?”

Peter slammed the driver side door shut and flicked Roman’s ear as he buckled in. “Fucker. Obviously not if I’m friends with your degenerate ass.”

Roman blew him a kiss. “Just think, you could be drinking a six pack right now down on the field with the football team -” Peter laughed - “or getting lucky with some girl slumming it with a Gyp. Instead you get the pleasure of my fine company, get to drive a sweet ass car - do not get fucking used to that, by the way,” he said as Peter stroked the dash, grinning. “And you got to wail on a shady necromancer mortician. No competition, am I right?”

Peter was cackling - the sound reminded Roman a little of a Hyena. “Fucking none, pretty boy. And that robe, too.”

“What can I say, I’m a dinner and a show kind of guy.”

Peter fired up the engine and they peeled away from the mortuary likes the flames of hell were behind them. “How can I resist an offer like that. What do you have planned for us next weekend?”

Roman leaned forward, plucked the cigarettes from the glove compartment and lit one. He took a long draw and then placed it between Peter’s lips. “I don’t know yet. Don’t worry pup - I know how to keep a man entertained.”


End file.
